


An Intervention

by Hipporiot



Series: A Matter Of Time [3]
Category: The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: First Kiss, M/M, Pre-Relationship, second hand embarrassment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-12
Updated: 2017-09-12
Packaged: 2018-12-26 11:56:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12058509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hipporiot/pseuds/Hipporiot
Summary: The ongoing argument of Barry Allen’s love life continues in this thrilling third chapter.Highlights: Barry coins the term ‘Felicity Smoak’ing it.Lowlights: Barry ‘Felicity Smoak’s himself.





	An Intervention

**Author's Note:**

  * For [WeThree](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WeThree/gifts).



> This took forever, but yet again, for WeThree and their insatiable Coldflash, straight up PROBLEM.
> 
> Anyway, xoxox.

So, maybe Barry’s imagining things, but lately, he thinks, just maybe, he might be happy.

Well, it’s not like he’s completely estranged from happiness normally, but it seems like somewhere indefinable in the near past it’s started becoming - consistent, stable, more frequent and lasting than it had been.

Work is good, he’s even managed to do most things on time; crime is - normal, if it can ever be called that in Central City. He’s had more time to spend with his family and less worrying about just about anything. 

Everything seems to be fine, good he might even dare to describe it as, it’s tenuous but - great.

Such as this evening, kitchen full of delicious smells and enough food to feed their weekly family dinner for all six of them - another unnervingly nice habit he’s gotten to keep.

His phone pings and before he even opens the text he knows who it is, a picture of Snart leaning his chair back on one leg with a water jug teetering half off the corner of his work table in an anxiety-inducing fashion; the angle requiring at least one of the Rogues to help set it up. 

Apparently Barry’s last picture of himself and the bachelorette party he rescued out of the lake blowing kisses had sufficiently bugged him. 

_Success._

Of course, he already has the perfect reply, grinning smugly as he taps send on a picture of him under a pile of the entire senior cat & dog sanctuary that he had saved from a fire. 

He’s quite aware he’s ruining criminal lives more than his job description requires - both of his jobs, to be specific.

And he loves it.

“Something funny?” Joe asks around the fridge door in his own particular ‘want to share with the class’ dad tone.

Barry tears his eyes away from the screen and slips his phone into his back pocket, “Not really.” He replies, picking his spatula back up off the counter and resuming his stirring of the sautéing vegetables.

He’ll keep the texting to himself; Joe might appreciate the comical escalation of images, but first he’d have to get past the fact that he’s texting with a criminal. 

Regularly. And he looks forward to it. And, god, he should really stop. It’s been an accident, a really funny one, actually, but it needs to stop. Like, right now. 

And with that vow his back pocket buzzes.

He’ll stop after that one. 

“Avocado?” Joe asks around the fridge door.

Wally lifts his nose far enough away from his blueprints and textbooks at the dinning room table to call, “Yes, please!” before diving back in.

Joe huffs a laugh, “I swear, he has selective hearing or somethin’.” He says with a toss of an avocado, which - luckily - he is allowed to catch now that Wally is aware of his abilities, which includes not dropping things and not pretending to trip into doorways.

Joe pulls out a chair at the island and plops a cutting board down, Barry joining him at a normal, Joe-preferred speed.

“So…” Joe says, “How are things?”

Barry thinks, and surprisingly feels a smile tug at his cheeks, “Good.” He replies, “I always like cooking with you. Plus it has enough similarities with chemistry, though you really shouldn’t add anything to taste in the crime lab.” He jokes.

Joe seems too distracted to even chuckle, “That’s good, Barr, I’m glad.” He says with a sentimental sigh to his cutting board, “…I want you to know-“ The doorbell rings and Barry springs to his feet, avocado sliced, pitted, and diced.

“Barry, could you wait a sec-“ Joe says from the table, but Barry’s already down the hall and opening the front door.

“Hey, guys!” He greets Caitlin and then Cisco, already happily hauling them inside for half-hugs, which Cisco slides out of early in favor of being uncharacteristically detached, which he’s been on and off ever since Winterfest, especially when something comes up with the Snart’s. 

He’s guessing that Cisco finding out he’s been secretly texting Snart wouldn’t improve that, “Iris! They’re here! We’re gonna be late!” he calls up the staircase.

“It’s cute that you still think there’s an alternative.” Iris calls back.

“Uh, Barr-“ Joe tries again from the hall, but Barry’s already slipping his shoes on.

“We won’t be long, just a quick stop to the middle school for the reenactment.” He reassures Joe, only a little excited to see a bunch of little Flash’s dancing around.

Joe catches his shoulder, “Barr, hey,“ Joe makes sure to catch his eyes before continuing, “focus.”

Barry huffs a laugh, “Okay, focused, but can it be quick?” he asks. 

Joe sighs deeply, gently clapping his hands on Barry’s shoulders in his pre-hug or pre-real talk way, “I just want you to know,” he says very slowly, and with a slightly disconcerting amount of importance, “despite having my own opinions and reservations and knowing how protective I can be, I support whatever choices you make in your life.” 

_“Okay.”_ Barry says, it’s very sweet and good to know, but he’s not really understanding the context, and _Joe_ does seem to be waiting for something.

Joe just keeps looking, like he’s waiting for Barry to pick up on whatever he’s laying down with great fatherly care, “Including your _love life_.” He defines.

“Thank you?” Okay, he’s really not getting this, “What’s this about?”

“Barry.” Joe scoffs, giving him a conspiratorial head nod, “Your _feelings_ for…“ he trails off.

“Da- _Joe_ ,” he catches himself, avoiding that familial mess as he both looks to Iris stopping on her way down the stairs and avoids her confused gaze, “Me and Iris have talked about this, neither of us are ready to start a romantic relationship, and when we are we’ll revisit it, until then-”

“That’s great!” Joe cuts in, jubilantly frustrated, “but I’m not talking ‘bout Iris.” He says with significant emphasis, fixing a meaningful glance his way again.

“Then who?” He laughs, because if not _Iris_ -

“… _Snart_ , Barry.” Joe says, blinking and shaking his head, “I’m a detective for a reason.” 

Barry’s feelings. For Snart.

Snart. Leonard Snart. Captain Cold. 

“ _Excuse me_?” he can’t have heard that right. 

“Hey, Barr-“ Joe urges, trying to catch him as he takes a confused step into the living room, “With all that’s been happening, Eddie, the singularity, Wells, the breaches; it’s been tough on all of us…” he says, without having to add that _someone’s_ been taking it especially hard, “But you’ve been smiling a lot more lately, and if that’s even partly ‘cause of Snart-“

“It’s _not_.” Barry scoffs in complete offence, even if it is partly a lie because Snart’s existence hasn’t been _completely_ frustrating of late, but how much of his happiness Joe is attributing to Snart is ridiculous, and impossible, but mostly ridiculous.

“Alright, _whatever_ it is-“ Joe says, badly pretending to believe Barry’s blatant denial, “it’s working, and I will accept near anything that keeps my kids happy.” Joe finishes.

And this is where he would nod and get teary and hug his fantastic father-figure.

Or that would happen if he was not currently boiling with the mental dissonance that Joe thinks he’s going to be bringing home Leonard Snart. 

And Joe’s kind’ve ok with it.

“That’s a really nice sentiment, Joe, but - _Snart_?” Barry laughs, but it feels slightly forced when everyone in the room is looking at him, taking their coats off, pulling food off burners, moving into the living room like this isn’t going to be quick, and not looking surprised.

Like they’ve been preparing for this.

“What’s going on?” He asks slowly.

Joe sighs, putting his hands up, “We weren’t gonna do this now-“ 

“It’s called an intervention, Barry.” Cisco explains flatly.

“An intervention.” He repeats dumbly, confirming this by the serious looks on everyone’s faces, “For my feelings for- I don’t have _feelings_ for Snart.”

Cisco scoffs, rudely, from the corner arm of the couch he’s claimed, “Don’t make me vibe you, bro.”

“You _wouldn’t_.” Barry demands with an equally threatening finger pointing in his direction.

“That’s what I thought about your weird little thing with Cold, but now I’m not sure of anything.” Cisco says with a wide-armed and wide-eyed shrug that feels a lot more pointed than a dismissive gesture should.

“There is no _thing_ between us.” Barry insists with enough disconnected humor to convince himself and hopefully the rest of the room.

“Okay, that’s a lie.” Cisco points out with an offensive amount of certainty.

Barry spins back around, “You said you wouldn’t vibe!” 

“I didn’t, and guess what? I’m still right.” Cisco states with another shrug.

Joe sighs, leaning against the doorway, “Hey, Barr, I didn’t want to make you feel embarrassed or ashamed-“

“I’m not ashamed of anything!” Barry says, stumbling back into the coffee table, which he steadies before the five different remotes for the TV can fall on his foot, “I have nothing to be ashamed of to start off with.” He interjects, possibly too fast to be convincing.

“Of course not, Barry.” Caitlin agrees placatingly, which definitely makes it worse.

“I don’t know,” Cisco says with a raise of his eyebrows as he flicks through his phone, “he’s acting kinda ashamed.”

“What exactly am I ashamed of?” he asks, calling Cisco’s bluff in his frustration.

“I don’t know,” Cisco pauses, looking down and coming to some decision, probably one that will make Barry regret not flashing out the door the second the word ‘intervention’ was uttered, and by the way Caitlin is popping open a pill case of some kind, he’s probably right, “-maybe hanging out with the Rogues?”

Hanging out- how did he-

Barry’s confused, but he’s still going to get his answer as Cisco pulls out his phone, “We can’t see faces in the picture I’m presenting, but I think we can say from the overwhelming evidence that…” Cisco trails off as he shows off a grainy phone picture of brightly dressed blurry people leaving a mini-mart, and, for not-so-comedic effect, a red circle drawn around an unsteady-looking red figure, “this is you.”

“Evidence?” Barry balks, because whatever level of ridiculous they’re leading to, he’s pretty sure he’s already reached it.

Cisco states, much like it’s an obvious answer to a simple formula, “The butt.”

He was completely wrong. It’s more ridiculous.

“Oh my _god_.” He enunciates, running his hands past his temples, “And you’re saying I have a problem?” he asks, hands only slightly wild in movement.

“You have a very distinctive butt. Cait, back me up.” Cisco reasons, calling Caitlin to his imaginary stand as he shoves the closed-up photo in her face.

“I don’t know, I guess?” She says with a confused shrug and an apologetic grimace to Barry, looking more than a little guilty that she _can_ tell.

Iris sets the water bottle down that she’d been holding, to reach her newly free hand out, “Let me see.” Iris says, betraying him completely by partaking in this absolute _madness_ , takes a glance that lasts less than a second, and nods, “Yep, that’s Barry.”

“Iris!” He squeaks.

“Why didn’t you tell us you were spending time with the Rogues, Barry?” Caitlin asks with that sad little crease between her brows, and now _he’s_ the one feeling guilty.

“Because I’m not.” He states, now in a much more stable and adult tone, and continues at the unconvinced stares, “That was just a one time thing-“

“Ha! it is you!” Cisco says triumphantly with an accusatory point.

“They’re not _that_ bad!” Out of all his villains they’re actually a breath of fresh air, Snart has kept his promise not to kill or maim, and he makes sure all his Rogues do too, and they mostly steal from people who can afford it, and he now knows that some of the excess stolen funds go to good places, and _when did he start defending the Rogues?!_

Before he can even begin to backtrack Joe’s shaking his head, “What were you doing with them, Barr?” Joe asks, just enough parental disappointment to sting.

Which might explain how hard it is to look anyone in the eye as he tries to be as honest as possible, “it was the Friday you guys were all out of town, I wasn’t feeling great, they gave me a ride home.”

“The Rogues know where you live!?” Iris nearly shouts, almost knocking Wally - who’s stopped his homework to watch this debacle - in the head in her attempt to gesture the severity of this issue.

“No, no, just Snart-“ he says, and then wants to run back in time a few seconds because that isn’t in any way better, it just makes Iris’ sculpted eyebrows shoot up her perfectly proportioned forehead.

“He drove you home alone?” Caitlin asks, and he really wishes that everything he’s saying didn’t keep getting twisted into sounding incriminatingly romantic. 

“Yes, but he left right away - right before Joe got home!” He says urgently, gesturing to Joe, his only alibi that he did not in fact spend quality time in the nondescript black van equivalent of a struggle buggy.

…Except, he kind’ve did - _but it didn’t go anywhere_.

But Joe just tilts his head and doubles Iris’ disbelieving expression, “ _That’s_ who woke half the neighbourhood?”

Wow, he really did crank it, didn’t he, “I guess?” Barry supplies weakly, and he really hopes they don’t bring up how he had ‘Cold as Ice’ stuck in his head for the following week.

“That’s why you were being so weird and smiley?” Joe asks, leaning forward on his elbows, looking caught between genuinely concerned and surreally amused.

“I was not being ‘weird and smiley’ - I’m always like that!” he poses in his defence, but he’s not sure whether the fact that he’s being weird and smiley about it _now_ is bolstering his case or undermining it.

“I called you ‘teddy-barr’ and you didn’t even bat a lash,” Joe reminds him with a wag of his dad-pointer-finger, “last time I called you that sincerely you were 19 and crying on the bathroom floor.” Ok, he’s got a point.

One Barry’s going to ignore, “So, what? It’s a cutesy nickname, whatever.” He says, hoping that Joe won’t remember the rest of that interaction.

Joe blinks, and answers deadpan, “It made you cry _MORE_ , Barry.” 

Why does Joe have to be such a good father-figure.

“Ok,” he admits defeat, “I was kinda distracted-“

“By Snart donating _several_ digits to _several_ charities in _your name?_ ” Cisco asks with a with a raise of his eyebrows, once again, pulling out his unbearably prepared phone to a photo album probably called ‘receipts’, “Yes, right here, ‘ _Mr L. Allen_ ’.”

Oh. 

Barry thought he only did that once.

He grabs the phone out of Cisco’s hand, not quite believing the amount of zeroes in the cheques he’s swiping through.

“You keep scrolling you’ll get to the time you both stopped mid-fight for 15 minutes to chit-chat.” Cisco suggests with such fake perk it hurts.

“A train was passing!” Barry says in both their defences, though once again, possibly a little too quickly. They had both agreed they weren’t going to derail _another_ one, “…So, we waited.” He finishes, though it’s more a mumble as he keeps scrolling through Cisco’s Barry-blackmail folder.

“For 15 minutes.” Cisco says in disbelief, snatching his phone back.

“Yeah.” Barry says, only slightly indignant.

Iris interjects their staring match to ask suspiciously innocent, “What did you do during those 15 minutes?”

“Sat on separate benches and waited, silently.” Which is only slightly a lie, because Snart had decided he’d have fun and text Barry incessantly so he had to struggle to get his phone out of his skin tight suit in front of him or let it keep buzzing.

“Uh-huh.” Cisco says, unconvinced and likely broadcasting it to the multiverse in the lull between his last comment. “And when exactly in all this mess did you get his number?” Cisco adds, because apparently he’s decided tonight is the perfect time to make good on any grievances, specifically the one where he’s jealous that one of his best friends is being monopolized by a super villain he’s apparently secretly dating, the same one who’s sister Cisco is supposed to be morally above being attracted to.

Ok, it kinda makes sense.

“I didn’t.” Barry states flatly, crossing his arms and deciding he’s going to be smart about this and not make it worse by saying more than one or two words at a time.

Well, worse-er.

Cisco clicks his tongue, going back to his phone where he must have a whole formal case built up, “So, I get this text-“ this is gonna be good, Cisco turning the screen to Barry’s face as he leans forward, “unknown number, but I can safely assume it’s from Snart; it’s equally threatening and intimate-”

“That’s _not_ his number.”

 _Why_. Why does he do this to himself.

“ _Really_.” Cisco says, like this is a completely pleasant and coincidental happening, “ _You_ know _his_ number?”

This is _entrapment_.

The entire room’s attention goes directly to the rectangular shape in Barry’s back pocket, which is the perfect time for it to ping with a new message.

He’s mentally debating whether to completely forego resetting his phone to factory settings and instead disposing of the evidence the old-fashion violent way, but Iris pulls him in by the belt loop and snatches his phone in one dizzying and unavoidable swoop, “Hey, don’t grab-“

“Barry, you’ve been texting?” Iris asks, flicking through his phone almost faster than he can stumble to respond.

“No - well, yes-“ 

“Everyday. You’ve been texting back and forth _daily_.” She announces, and the room gets even more tense, though he doesn’t know why seeing as everyone has complained that he types far too fast and frequent, so just once daily seems like an improvement.

Alright, maybe him replying _on time_ might be weird, but, “Fine, yes, daily, but it’s just pictures-“

Caitlin gapes, “WHAT?!”

Oh my _god_.

His hands are already frantically waving enough to flag an alien spaceship as he spins around fast enough to make the carpet smoke, “No, no, god, no. Not like _that_ \- _NEVER_ like that-” He really wishes Felicity were here so she could somehow make his foot-in-dirty-implications-mouth not sound so bad, at least in comparison - but maybe she’d just make this _severe_ misunderstanding worse as he upgrades from spinning to practiced spiralling.

Cisco is urging him to stop, “Dude, you can’t recover-“ wide eyed and hands outstretched in surrender, because he now realizes the way to get Cisco to stop is to up the ante, or maybe just cleanly jump the shark into sexting with Captain Cold. 

“No, just look at them!” Barry urges, failing to think of any other way they’ll understand before he sets the whole house on fire or knocks over more lamps than they can possibly own.

Caitlin blanches at him, “Barry!”

“ _Look_.” And despite everyone’s prior propriety, they all lean in for the examination for the slideshow of Snart performing anxiety inducing actions and Barry’s morally just responses, often including small animal rescue-ees and/or Flash related memorabilia.

“See? It’s not-” he flounders, stumbling at just the thought of the alternative photos, “-what you thought it was.”

Silence follows, hopefully the contemplative kind that will allow everyone to see how silly they’ve been and they can all forget this happened and have dinner because he’s already cranky enough, not including the amount of calories he must’ve burned being this stressed in such a short amount of time.

Joe breaks the silence from his corner of the room, “How long…” he starts, “How long have you two been serious?”

“We’re not serious!” He struggles not to shout, “We don’t even talk, he just started sending those pictures to make me anxious so I- retaliated?” 

“Um, Barr?” Iris tentatively calls to his attention a few texts farther up the message history.

“Ok, we talked once.” he admits despite the self-satisfied look he gets from Cisco, “I asked about Lisa,” to which Cisco seems a little less hostile to hear, so he continues, “he asked how Cisco’s brother was doing-“

Cisco shoots forward, “And you told him?!”

“Yes - no - technically, yes, but only the bare minimum.” He tries to clarify, but Cisco still looks ready to throw down, pushed from a creative genius’ petty frustration to a family matter, “Hey, he apologized-“

“As he should.“ He demands, daring Barry to say a word against it.

“Yeah, of course,” Barry wholeheartedly agrees, of course, he’s never been able to turn down dares, “I just wanted to make sure he knew Dante was fine-“

“No, no,” Cisco laughs in that angrily humorous way, “you don’t get to assuage the rightful guilt of the villain who threatened my brother’s life and his _FINGERS_.”

Ok, maybe he should start back-pedalling, “Cisco-“ 

“TEN OF THEM, BARRY.” Cisco continues, illustrating quite helpfully, because one special finger wouldn’t be good enough, “FUCKING _TEN_.” 

Maybe he shouldn’t have brought that up at all, cause Cisco’s flipping his hair back and standing up, “Y’know, I thought it was just a coincidence or my imagination, but in _recent light_ , the pieces are coming together and the gloves are coming off.”

“Cisco-“ He warns.

But Cisco continues, picking up more steam and gumption at Barry’s blatant fear, “Back at Winterfest, I could smell Snart’s breath.”

“Cisco.” He warns again, or possibly pleads for a merciful end to the statement that he isn’t going to get, and by the way Caitlin’s rummaging through her portable pharmacy temping as a purse, someone’s going to get grievously hurt or she’s just looking for her phone charger at a convenient time to be away from this conversation.

“And y’know what it smelled like?” Cisco asks rhetorically, which has everyone on the edge of their seat and Barry on the edge of his sanity.

“Cisco, _no_.” He’s pleading fully now, forcefully and without shame.

“Barry’s gross smelly mints.”

His stomach flips traitorously just at the mention, though the sensation doesn’t distract him from the whole room gasping in surprise.

“Yeah, so what? He ate one of my mints.” Barry says with an ineffective shrug, 

Iris leans forward, looking altogether too interested in this scenario, “Out of your _mouth_?” 

“Uh, no-“ he chuckles nervously at her expression, but manages to cough his way back to sobriety, “He took one out of my pocket.” 

“ _Your disgusting ABC mints?!_ ”

“Yes - no,” He stumbles, and settles for stuttering, “-not intentionally.”

“That’s downright domestic.” Iris says, settling back and letting him focus on the whole living room silently agreeing, and he’d be lying to pretend he doesn’t remember thinking the same thing.

“I didn’t give it to him! He just took it!” He tries to explain, albeit a tad too frantically and equally unhappy with the outcome.

“His hands were in your pockets and you didn’t notice?” Cisco asks, standing back to fully enjoy Barry flustered and sputtering in circles. 

“I can’t control where his freakishly subtle hands go-“

“Oh my _god_.” Iris says, astounded and loving it as she munches on her popcorn - which she somehow managed to get in-between one of his panic attacks and the many others.

“No, no, no, no - not like that-”

Joe puts a hand up, “Stop. _Speaking_.” He advises, a voice of reason that looks worryingly pale.

Which makes him feel unreasonably mad at Cisco for making Joe witness this mock trial, which might explain why he blurts out, “Well, you made out with Lisa Snart!”

“Pfft, have you seen her?” Iris scoffs like it’s a completely reasonable excuse while Caitlin nods reluctantly next to Cisco’s hurt posture, pointed directly at Barry.

“Why won’t you just admit you’re dating Captain Cold?” Cisco asks, spreading his arms in Barry’s direction, but also at the room, like the dramatic mess that’s happened is everywhere and completely his fault.

Desperate means call for desperate measures.

“That’s it, I’m calling him, he’ll-“ _back me up_ , he wants to insist, but thinks better of it for more than one reason, “-back up his reputation, and then I’m deleting his number.”

It’s the nerve wrecking sound of ring tone for what must be an eternity, and in that time he manages to regret calling and also reason that Snart most likely won’t even bother to pick up.

But by the grace of cruel fate the call connects with a click, “ _Hey, Scarlet-_ ” Snart drawls, and in the presence of his entire extended family it sounds uncomfortably more salacious than he’s ever realized.

“Shh!” he shushes him, quick and possibly too aggressively, but is back to business with a deep determined breath, “-Are we dating?”

Barry expects a pause, maybe even the mercy of him hanging up but - curse Snart’s impeccable timing - without missing a beat Snart promptly replies, “ _Well, I wouldn’t call what we’ve done dating, per se-_ “

“It’s not what you’re thinking!”

“Like hooking up?!”

“ _…Red, am I on speaker phone?_ ”

“We are not hooking up!” He practically yells, hands almost vibrating in stress.

“This is terrible.” Wally says, despite how enthralled he is in the conversation, taking some of Iris’ offered popcorn.

“This is amazing.” Iris laughs, grinning and not daring to blink.

Caitlin gasps, “Oh my god, Barry,” she says, asking just a decimal over a reasonable whisper, “is that why your vitals have been rising unexpectedly?” 

He in no way likes what she’s implying, but mostly her face, like she’s putting two and two together and he would sincerely like her to stop, and everyone else in the room who looks like they’re finally connecting things that have _no_ connections.

 _None_.

“NO! I am not having quickies with a 40 year old gimmick villain while you’re on mic!” is that what they actually thought was happening? Is that something Barry actually has to deny?

Cisco snorts, “…You _have_ been turning the mic off a _lot_ lately, bro.” Cisco adds with fake reluctance.

“ _Cisco_.” He grinds out.

Caitlin pipes up with increasing suspicion, “ _And_ the GPS.”

“ _CAITLIN_.” He balks, because with her there’s some real betrayal. 

Wally spits popcorn across the room, “Wait - this guy is _40_?” he coughs, catching up just a little late.

“43.” Iris supplies unhelpfully, showing Wally what seems to be Snart’s few surviving photos on her phone, or maybe the wiki page on him that Barry is ashamed to say he’s the top contributor on, though he has a sneaking suspicion the other two editors of the page are likely Iris, and Snart himself.

But Wally interrupts the troubling knowledge, “Ew, Barry, do you have like, a daddy-kink?”

The entire room erupts to back him up on this one, “ _WALLY!_ ”

“I need to sit down.” Joe says warily, despite his current position, which is, well, sitting.

“Dad, you alright?” Iris asks, attention somehow torn away from the juicy drama, but still managing to elbow Wally on her way.

He doesn’t look alright, more pale, unfocused, and questioning reality as he asks queasy, “Didn’t you kids have a thing to go to?”

The recital, but Barry doesn’t have to look at a clock to know it’s over by now, unless the stress of this event has thrown off his sense of time even more than it already has been. 

All he really does know is that he needs to use his legs for something and avoid any further conversations, specifically Caitlin pressuring Cisco into apologizing and Iris attempting to catch his eye to get him alone for a full dish that will _definitely_ not be happening any time soon.

“I’m gonna go for a walk.” He blurts out, already half way to the door.

“Yeah, yeah, that sounds… yeah.” Joe says distantly, silencing the rest of the protesting room with a single noncommittal flop of his free hand that is not currently cradling his head.

Barry’s out the door before anyone can catch him, walking, and then jogging, and then sprinting, but he still can’t stop thinking about Snart.

Snart ruining his Friday nights, Snart crashing community events for fun, Snart invading his family conversations. He couldn’t just stop at being a poorly scheduled and popular villain, but Iris is still working on the ‘corruption’ story which just happens to be drawing more and more red strings - which she borrowed from Barry - to the Rogues.

But Barry knows that anything convoluted enough to make him both irrationally angry and obsessed has to be masterminded by a particular master thief.

If he can just figure out what the hell Snart is up to, he can foil his plans and prove to everyone that he is in no way involved with Captain Cold, no matter the unexpected amount of acceptance at home, not that that could change that Snart opposes everything Barry values in his life. 

Which reminds him of the texts he hasn’t looked at yet, opening his phone to an odd picture, seeing as he doesn’t remember taking it.

Himself, sick and practically comatose in his flash gear in the back of the Rogue’s van, bracketed by his Rogue’s gallery - Peak-a-Boo, Golden Glider, and Heatwave blowing kisses to the camera. Followed by the strange sight of an actual text message instead of a baiting photo.

It’s an address.

Barry’s heart skips - …platonically.

Maybe he has - a _thing_ for him, but he’s had things for people before that never changed into anything: Iris, for one. He’s had and still has feelings for her, but that in no way impairs his judgement. Ok, a little, he does on occasion take his feelings for her into account. Ok, a lot, but that does _not_ translate to this - _thing_ with Snart.

This thing that has been bothering him for months, particularly since a certain Friday, but he doesn’t know how to feel about it, let alone what to call it. Maybe it’s a crush, a small one, that also ties his stomach in knots and consumed the entirety of the rocky-road ice cream that _Snart_ bought Barry, after _he drove him home_. 

He’s so confused. 

But unlike his current state of disturbing distress, this problem does not yet have a name, because if it’s affection, or liking, or maybe even- whatever it could be, it’s just a chemical response. That’s all it is. 

Of course, Barry’s thought about that before, about Iris’ smile. Iris, the first and lasting love of his life, and now Snart-

But Snart’s killed, tortured, stolen, and lied. Lied to _him_.

He can’t do this.

Or, he _could_ go and address the focus of this issue directly at the provided address.

Barry runs, not races, phases through concrete, steel, and stops. Paper rustles and empty air collapses behind him with a hollow gasp as he takes a deep breath of cool industrial air. 

Leonard Snart stands in the centre of his view, hands hovering over a very familiar box of files, specifically stamped CCPD.

He expects a snide comment about using the door, maybe even mild frustration about the papers, but Snart just looks back to his stolen files, “You still sure about this moral high ground, arm of the law stance?”

“And going strong.” Barry replies, not liking how Snart asking him questions with simple answers makes his stomach tense and his chest ache.

“Of course, and having a trick like that, _and_ being a thief would just make things boring.” Snart drawls, holding a redacted paper up to the warm light of the little warehouses ceiling lamps.

“And also alienate me from my friends, family, and personal beliefs.” Barry nods and shrugs in mock casualty, distant from how frustrated he feels.

Snart sighs with a closing snap of the box’s lid, “Well, every career has it’s tragedies.” And in the warm lamp light, Barry’s sure that the thought occurs to both of them that they might both be each others tragedies.

The silence seems like it might stretch on forever, and that wouldn’t be so bad, but Snart tilts his head just a tad, looking to the ground, and then back up, “What was that call about?” Snart asks.

Barry opens his mouth, thinks better of it, and thinks they both know the subject that he’s going to bring up - or, at least he thought he _could_ bring up. But having Snart right there, staring him down, surrounded by more than fifty reasons nothing could ever be real, or simple, or easy, or end well between them, or _be_. Period-

Snart huffs, a little twinge of disappointment on his face going straight to Barry’s heart, “Go home, kid.” 

Barry could go home, he could let this all go, climb into bed and wake up exhausted tomorrow and pretend he’s fine like usual. Snart’s telling him to - and that makes him so, so, _angry_. 

Snart thinks he’s just going to take the easy way out, leave him alone, let this go, fall short of the challenge - like it’s a choice.

“No.” 

Snart’s eyes lock back onto his, “Excuse me?”

“ _No_.” Barry repeats.

“Kid-“ Snart warns, but Barry’s past warnings, cause he’s doing this.

“It’s time you started acting your age and admit you’re having a crappy mid-life crisis, so stop pretending to be a super villain, or that being intentionally or directly helpful would kill you.” Or that Snart genuinely wants him- the city to be safe.

“ _I’m_ not pretending.” Snart jabs, turning on his heel and sauntering further into the shelves of boxes.

“I don’t see real monsters driving their ‘nemesis’ home, or buying their groceries, or protecting them on _multiple_ occasions which I _will_ cite if necessary.” And now Barry’s the one compiling a case, pursuing him deeper into the stacks of varying possessions that Snart should not have.

Snart makes a sound like he’s actually considering that offer, “So you’re not only calling me stupid and fake, but also soft?”

He catches Snart at the bicep of his terribly soft sweater, turning him around, “I’m calling you a convoluted asshole!” he hisses, not liking how the warehouse echoes, and possibly because it’s a side affect of not being used to cursing.

“You kiss your sister with that mouth?” An intentional agreement in form of a goad, Barry’ll persevere through the screaming need to yell at the top of his lungs.

“You deflect valid points because you’re uncomfortable around me?” it’s the only reasonable explanation, and If he’s playing coy, a man as meticulous as him should already know Barry has no patience for coy, and the slim amount he’s managing is supplied directly from spite and pride, two very deep wellsprings when he’s around Leonard Snart.

“You’re a forensic scientist, Red, not a psychiatrist.” Snart reminds him, pulling out of his loose grip with ease.

“You’re a good person who makes bad choices, not a real villain.” He responds and watches how Snart clenches his teeth behind the grimace, glaring a few seconds longer before turning away.

He flashes in front of Snart, loose papers flying again.

Snart stops, rolling his eyes before settling them on Barry with a harder expression, “What do you want from me, Barry?”

His breath catches at the question, a question he’s been asking himself and avoiding answering for almost as long as the seconds that pass feel, long enough that he can curse the soft light for making Snart look so sincere and the close shelves at either side for making him feel so trapped, enough to be short of breath.

So Barry just says the first thing that he can think of, “I want you to be honest.” Because everything would be easier if he could just be sure, but it would mean that he would have to reciprocate, and that would mean examining things that would make simplifying his feelings impossible, which would make life more complicated than it already is.

And he might as well have said all of it, because Snart simultaneously stares back at and right through him, “I am.”

“No, you’re not.” He insists, staring right back.

Snart tilts his head, levelling Barry with a skeptical stare, “Maybe it’s just you.”

Maybe, but they’re speaking on too many levels for him to be sure and he’s been doubting himself enough; he’s come too far to let Snart slow him down, or whatever _this_ is.

“No. You care about this city, you care about people, you care about your family: Lisa, the Rogues,” He says, but before he even gets half of it out, Snart’s slipping past him with equal conviction, striding down the isle and away.

Snart huffs a laugh, or maybe an amused scoff, but it’s hard to tell when Barry’s at his heels, “ _Kid_ , you’re projecting-“ because apparently he’s the therapist now as he keeps up the pace that looks a lot like a retreat from behind.

Barry stops, “You care about me.” He says.

Sudden and without intention, the statement a little too intimate for both of them, but it stops Snart in his vaguely fleeing tracks, which makes it feel almost worth it.

He never thought he could stun Snart into silence, and it still looks unlikely, because this seems more of a tactical silence when Snart looks over his shoulder, the calculating stare he trains on Barry strays down and away.

But Barry’s started it now, and he’s not letting Snart get away easy, “I think you’re always so keen on pointing out anything even vaguely child-like about me so you can distance yourself from how you feel.”

“Or maybe I’m just old with a great sense of humor.” Snart muses with a shrug of a shoulder, playing at thinking as he moves back a few steps.

“Why are you always trying to vilify yourself?” He bothers asking, matching Snart’s steps away with a few forward.

But Snart just tilts his head again, “Why are you always trying to exonerate me?”

“Because I care about-“ his throat closes around the answer, mind racing in worn down circles and common contradictions, so he stumbles for the only other truth he can voice, “…rehabilitating criminals.”

“I don’t see you ‘ _caring_ ’ this much about any other cons’ ‘ _rehab_ ’.” Now Snart’s on the offensive, taking up the isle between shelves, blocking a way out of the conversation.

“And I don’t see any other ‘ _villains_ ’ so desperate for my attention.” He points out, But Snart’s still winning the staring match.

“I like a challenge.” Snart states, proving it by how he holds Barry’s gaze, a step closer than Barry remembers.

He closes his mouth, keeps it that way because all he wants to ask is if that’s all he is to him, a challenge. He takes a deep breath, remembers that it shouldn’t matter what he is to Snart, remembers just how much time he really has. 

But time never seems to have any weight when he’s around Snart, especially when he’s walking away again, so he just plows ahead, one step forward after him, “Like being Captain Cold is challenging?”

Snart shrugs smoothly as he keeps his pace, “It can be.”

“When I’m involved, you mean.” He points out, continuing to follow him into the warmer workspaces of the building.

“Maybe.”

“What about the challenge of keeping Central City safe.” He broaches, toying with the idea that things could be that easy.

“Not interested.” Snart replies with a characteristically bored tone as he sorts uncharacteristically through a loop of key rings at the office door instead of just using his usual resourcefulness.

“Or maybe it’s just _too_ challenging for you.” He proposes, examining the old frosted windows into the dimly lit office.

“If you think you can goad me into becoming a good samaritan, you’re-“ Snart chuckles.

Barry interrupts his smug chuckling with a firm step forward into his space leaning against the doorjamb, “What? Right?”

Snart snorts, standing his ground, “ _Cuter_ than I thought.” He explains, turning away from the challenge as he shoulders the creaky office door open, “But wrong.” 

Snart strides through the doorway, and Barry deeply wishes he wasn’t going to follow him in, but…

He catches the door as he slips in after Snart, the office already warmer and mustier than the warehouse outside, though he can tell by the dust outlines alone that it’s already been cleaned and emptied of anything Snart might actually want to keep.

“Look, Snart-“ he starts, taking a deep breath as he forces himself to remember that Snart isn’t his main concern, “I’ll ignore the missing Rogues’ files, all you have to do is give up your plans and the stolen cases and evidence.“ then maybe Iris will stop focusing on the story, and Snart will have one less connection to his love and home life. 

Snart stands at a file cabinet, pulling out a duffel, “No.” He says. No drama or flourish, not even enjoying drawing it out. Just- No.

He scoffs at the complete dismissal, “Snart, I’m giving you a chance to solve this.”

“Who says I want it solved?” He asks curtly with a tilt of his head. 

Barry tries to breathe and resist the challenge, “It’s not just about what you want.” He explains, “These people you’ve collected, they could do so much good but you keep encouraging them to do worse.”

“By your standards.” Snart adds, paying more attention to gathering files into his bag than the conversation.

“Snart, you’re a career criminal with a gimmick,” he gets a glare for that one, “and you’re dragging these people so deep into your crap the only way it’ll end is in flames.” He pleads in a ground out tone to cover the break of his voice, a frustrating side effect of being an angry crier, “ _Literal_ flames, Snart.” He defines with a deep breath, blinking back the blurry edges of his vision.

Snart inhales sharply and closes his eyes, finally paying him direct attention, “You know petty or unnecessarily violent theft is beneath me, and I keep shoe store robbers’ like Mardon in line without unethical high tech timeout boxes. ‘These people’ are better off with me, and they can leave whenever they want.” He defines with a showy flick of his hand.

“Snart-“ He starts.

But Snart stops him, “You and I made a promise, Barry,” There he goes again, strategic use of his name with his infuriating gaze not wavering from his, “ _I_ keep my promises.” Tightness grips his chest, so he covers it by crossing his arms. 

“Really?” Barry adds, schooling his usual unreasonable faith in exchange for holding tight to reasonable hurt, hating how clearly he can remember after Ferris Air the soreness both emotional and physical, but especially in his eyes. 

Crying sucks, but crying partly because of Leonard Snart sucks _more_.

Snart nods, “You’ve trusted me before and got the cold shoulder,” He says, attempt to validate Barry’s jilted posture only slightly undermined by the pun, “but what you _can_ trust in is that I make smart choices, and sometimes those are the ‘right’ ones, too.”

“I know it’s in you to do the right thing for the right reasons.” Barry argues, pausing at the tug on the especially tender part of his heart at the disbelief in Snart’s eyes, and gives in with a step forward, “I believe in you.”

Snart flicks his eyes down, drawing Barry in at the thought he might have struck a chord, catching him glancing back up to part his lips and say, “Me and Bigfoot are real flattered.”

“Don’t-“ why did he have to bring Cryptids into this, Barry resists the urge to bury his head in his hands, “Why do you always have to make this harder than it already is?”

“Because you make it so easy.” Snart replies with a cute little smile.

And Barry hates how he finds it cute, how this is how he’s spending his night, arguing with a man who is a criminal, and a killer, and an ass, and all his fault. How all his problems are his fault.

“How about I make it even easier,” Barry says, throwing his arms out and stepping back as he gives up, “since all I seem to be good at is being a punchline?” 

But Snart rolls his eyes, stepping forward, “Red, if you keep trying to make up for an entire city’s faults, there’ll be nothing left of The Flash except a nice red suit, and as convenient as that would be,” He pauses, whether for effect or the reality of his words becoming a little too real for the both of them, “…you’re not the problem.”

Barry knew Snart was a liar, but he didn’t know how convincing of one he could be, because he almost wants to believe him. But he must be the problem, because what else do all the other problems have in common? 

And that makes him even angrier, “Then what is?! The fact that you and every criminal are driving the city into the ground? The fact that lives are being ruined around you and you can’t be bothered? That you’re too busy thinking about the perfect score and one liner to realize there’s going to be no one left who cares?”

“Barry.” Snart tries to reason with him with a single use of his name, but he’s past reasonable.

Barry’s desperate - desperate to feel hopeful again - to not have to weigh optimism against this crushing weight, to see his future clearly and unsullied with grave-dirt. He’s desperate for one thing in his life to be simple, and safe, and stable, and how it’s just his luck to love yet another person who’s out of reach and full of heart ache. 

-And has the fucking _audacity_ to stand in front of him, staring, uncaring, challenging him to do anything but the same, to not be himself and make another mistake that will be more than it’s weight in tears.

So, really what does Barry have left but to ask - frustrated and exhausted but for the roiling thunder in his stomach and skull - far from done, “What _is_ the problem, Snart?” he asks, every part of him tense against the quake of the volatile energy coiled up inside of his tired bones, thrumming with no where to run, winding and whirling against his ribs, sparking at his fingertips, a force inside him too real to contain any longer, “ _What_ -“

His voice breaks with the lightbulbs, crooked webs of electricity jump from him and sparks rain down, room in darkness, and he swears he can hear his own heartbeat in the silence where thunder should be. 

“Quite dramatic.” Snart comments casually in the dark.

A whirr begins at Barry’s back, a laptop restarting, accompanying projector sparking to life, single eye of warm light casting past him to the industrial wall beyond. 

He can just see Snart hang his head in the shadows of his peripherals, but he’s too busy turning to see a desktop enlarged, illuminated and projected in the dark of the room.

“What- …is this?” He asks, because all the frustration, grief, and anxiety is gone; the confusion is still definitely there, but in a _slightly_ different way.

Snart sighs in exasperation at his shoulder and it stretches on as Barry’s eyes race over the wall- plans, schematics, papers, graphs. File names like welfare, child support, education, economy, corruption-

“You inspired me, Barry.” Snart says with a touch of resentment that makes it sound sincere, If Barry can even wrap his head around that.

Because it can’t possibly mean what he thinks. But by the way Snart is avoiding his eyes jumping between wall and man responsible for wall, it’s looking sincere, uncomfortably so.

“I did.” Barry says, brain racing and yet getting nowhere extremely fast, “ _I did_?”

“Uh-huh,” Snart admits as insincerely as possible, half the projection caught on his back as he postures uncomfortably, like he’s trying to be discreet as he turns his embarrassment away, “you showed me this city _can_ change.”

“ _Really_.” Barry replies, feeling light-headed and giddy and not at all rooted in reality.

“Yep, and you’re doing a terrible job at it.” Snart says, turning with a flourish and disdainful expression.

“Thanks.” He says, still trying to process The Wall, and now Snart, in general. 

Which he still can’t seem to do, and just stares. 

“Honestly, Red, you’ve done a fabulous job with the architecture - a lot less pot holes thanks to you - but you’re horribly slow with the real changes.” Snart says, edging around Barry to reach the laptop and likely to turn it off, but he can’t move, or rather won’t, mostly because he feels incapable of doing anything that isn’t looking at Snart, and the wall, and then Snart. Ultimately, forcing Snart to either physically reach around him or huff and wait. He does the latter.

Barry manages to remember how to prioritize thoughts, such as a single question, “Like what?” He asks.

“Homelessness, corruption, poverty, - you name it.” He says with a shrug, a move not usually seen when stating your campaign goals, looking dreamlike to Barry in a wash of wordpress shortcuts and notepads full of community improvements.

Barry nods, “Down to half by the end of the year.” He reads to confirm he’s not just dreaming this, because Leonard Snart is planning a benevolent hostile takeover.

Snart takes a step forward, “More if you don’t get clingy.” He delivers with a smirk, now close enough for Barry to feel the condescension radiate off of him along with the warmth of someone who wears a thermal shirt indoors all season, but mostly the first one. 

He stares back at Snart, disbelieving, “ _Really_.” Because he, the one responding to intentionally set off alarms and purposefully left evidence, is the clingy one. “So you’re going to altruistically micro manage the city through _crime_?” 

Snart clicks his tongue with another foot forward, not leaving much ground left to bicker over, “See, I’d run for Mayor, but someone destroyed my recorded work experience.” 

The horse is dead, burned, _personally_ digitally erased, but there Snart is, with a stick in his hand poking it for reserved giggles. 

Because he’s going to make himself unofficial Mayor of Central City, because he loves his job, but also because he loves the city, because he loves its people, because Barry inspired him. 

Because of Barry. 

“I told you, Barry,” Snart says, feeling rudely far away for being so close, and all he can do is keep staring at the man before him, half in shadow, half in warm flickering light catching on his lashes, his nose, his lips - completely alien, completely incomprehensible - “I love this city.”

Completely gorgeous.

Seconds slow, languidly long, time enough to consider correct courses of action and perfect his reaction, to take a breath maybe and come to some vague sense of common sense, but he doesn’t, because the room is dark, and the wall of all that the man he believes in can accomplish is still there, and Leonard Snart is _very_ close.

Barry takes his calloused cold hand in his own, feet before a mere foot apart now down to inches, so close, so confusing, so- he doesn’t know what to think, so he just doesn’t. 

He leans closer in increasingly incriminating increments, tip of his nose grazing Snart’s own, breath warm. Expanding chest to expanding chest, inhaling in tandem, flush as they both just breath this moment in and keep it there. 

A flush rises through his lungs like the warmest gasp, stomach tight and fluttering, heart thumping heavy against his ribs, a hand ghosting at the small hair at the back of his neck, so he leans in and parts his lips against the resistance.

He’s never felt anything like this before, the intensity - yes, just once, in a timeline that doesn’t exist anymore. But then it had been in his hands, nervous and jittering, and his face, a mess of emotions that to this day can make him a mess.

This feels like that, like- love. A single word struggling to clasp a complex concept and chemical creation. That part of him, moral and reasoning, it doesn’t want it- this to be love.

But you can not want to breathe and still need to gasp. 

And they both do, small, hushed gasps, though they’re both acutely aware how alone they are together in the cavernous space around their hunched shoulders, bodies in complete contact but for the infinitesimal space now between their lips. 

And all he can think to say, letting time resume it’s usual ticking as Snart untangles their hands, “I won’t let you do this.”

“Good.” Snart breathes out, just slightly satisfyingly breathless, “It wouldn’t be any fun if you did.” .

He breathes in that same breath, “I’m going to stop you.” He states, watching Snart’s smirk grow in the space between the seconds.

Snart spreads his palm over Barry’s collarbone against the static of the fabric, pushing him back just barely, “Keep telling yourself that.” And he definitely will.

But the daze wears off of Barry enough to ask as Snart grabs his duffel and heads for the door, “You’re not taking any of this with you?”

“Well, _shoot_ ,” Snart mocks, “I guess the CCPD will be getting their property back.” He pauses his sauntering retreat to look Barry over for an inappropriately long moment, “…Most of it.”

He tries not to laugh, but ends up just biting his lip instead, “…I’ll give you a 5-minute head start.”

“You’re too nice.” Snart says, soft and chastising.

“Says you.” He replies, liking how Snart’s eyes narrow at the implication.

“With the worst intentions.” Snart one-ups him.

“Keep telling yourself that.” He calls, and he can practically feel Snart struggle not to come back.

He’s created a monster, a control freak, gimmick villain, humanitarian master criminal, green-party _monster_. He’s in love. There’s no reason in putting ‘think’ in the mix, he knows, it’s a fact, one he’s accepted. 

Currently understanding how he’ll manage it, no idea. 

But no matter how fast he is, he can’t run from this. But he’s still got four and a half minutes, he can pretend until then. 

…

It’s not like he can let Snart keep his wallet.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading, and if you want to make the author smile feel free to comment on your favorite part (if you had one)! 
> 
> (Sidenote: leave a kudos if you liked the high-minded debate between Cisco and Barry of "why do you get a Snart if i can’t have a Snart" with the counterpoint of "I DON'T THO!!!")


End file.
